"Somebody ought to get hold of that young man," said Prudence, grimly, as she nodded in Spurlock's direction. "Look at him!"
Ruth looked. He was draining a glass, and as he set it down he shuddered. A siphon and a whisky bottle stood before him. He measured out the portion of another peg, the bottle wavering in his hand. His food lay untouched about his plate. There was no disgust in Ruth's heart, only an infinite pity; for only the pitiful understand.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"I have no sympathy," replied Prudence, "with a man who deliberately fuddles himself with strong drink."
"You would, if you had seen what I have. Men in this part of the world drink to forget the things they have lost."
"And what should a young man like this one have to forget?"
Prudence demanded to know.
"I wonder," said Ruth. "Couldn't you speak to him?"
"What?—and be insulted for my trouble? No, thank you!"
"That is it. You complain of a condition, but you leave the correction to someone else."
The spinster had no retort to offer such directness. This child was frequently disconcerting. Prudence attacked her chicken wing.